Back in our geeky LARPing youth, Mr Smith-Park and I loaded up our giant van that we referred to as "the living room" (it had two sofas, two recliners, and a sound system, was surrounded by windows, and had a transmission hump as warm as a fireplace, we reasoned), and we drove down to a large gathering of like-minded geeky folk, a handful of miles outside of Austin. When we came flying into the campsite (the man NEVER drives anywhere slowly or cautiously), we had the best-known movement of Carmina Burana, O Fortuna, blaring from the cassette deck. Right around the same time, we both observed that if anyone had told our teenaged selves that we'd be rocking out to opera in public, we would never have believed them. (Yes, I have since learned that Carmina Burana is a cantata, not an opera, but that is not relevant to the story.) It turns out, there is a lot to be said for expanding one's musical horizons. As a snotty teenager, I also used to turn my nose up at country music, disdainfully calling it "yee-haw, shit, rope-a-chicken" music. Yet there I was, at the turn of this century, finding out just how freaking cool acts like BR-549 and Charlie Robison were, and discovering that Johnny Cash and Hank Williams had something going on after all.
Which brings us to tonight. I used to think I had come so far when I claimed, like so many WASPs do, "I like all kinds of music, except rap." Once again, more fool I, on so many levels. This evening, the man and I keep finding ourselves grooving in a sedentary, middle-aged person way, to all sorts of rap songs that keep popping up, between the TV, my iTunes, links sent to us, or the endless clicking through hipster rap on YouTube. (The man started with "chap hop" and just kept going. It was worth it. Trust me. Google today's song.) I spent years providing both of my children with the finest musical education I could, making sure they knew their rock and roll from Antmusic to Zappa, and everything in between. Darling girls are still returning the favor, making sure their often-clueless parents stay current on all the required listening, plus some that is purely gratuitous. Daughter one gave us a "Misty Mountain Rap" tonight, a dwarvish parody song. Bless her generous musical soul.
I sewed some Velcro on the gingerbread-colored dog pants, but I don't yet have pictures of Murray in them to share. I will wait until he's had his bath, so that he can wear them when he meets one set of his grandparents for the first time. I'm ready for him to have multiple sets of trousers. He goes through them quickly. And I have watched him intentionally flip himself over in the house multiple times today. He puts his front legs down, then chin, and if he doesn't get an immediate response out of me to remove the wheels, he puts one shoulder down and flips. He thinks doing this in the kitchen will improve his chances of being there when food falls to the floor, like maybe tripping me while I'm cooking will cause me to throw bacon straight down into his mouth. How sad for him that all he managed to get was attention today, when I abandoned food for a camera. It's a delicate dance we play. A very genteel battle.
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